


family is what you make it

by always_an_anxious_mess



Category: Minecraft - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Avian Tommyinnit (Video Blogging RPF), Comfort No Hurt, Elytrian Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Family Dynamics, Feral TommyInnit (Video Blogging RFP), Fluff, Found Family, Gen, LMAO, Language Barrier, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence, Powers SMP - Freeform, Soft TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Takes place before the canon powers/origins smp, Winged TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), avians are like runt elytrians, i dont know what i wrote, phil finds him and tries to help him out, pure fluff, that was my inspiration for this, the origins thing, this is just pure fluff, tommy is feral child living in a house out in the woods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 03:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30048936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/always_an_anxious_mess/pseuds/always_an_anxious_mess
Summary: The boy squawked, giving him a disbelieving look. The feathers around his ears and from his hair sticking up straighter defensively.“Are you... still chirping?” Phil tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “No one taught you Common? Can you even understand me?”———Or, an Origins/Powers SMP prequel fic where I worldbuild much more than necessary. ft: Feral Tommy lives in a house in the woods at thirteen, and Phil finds him out there.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 1222





	family is what you make it

He does not know why he builds such a large house despite being the only one living in it.

It is made of stone and wood, built into a cliff side and very tall. It was open, the several floors being balconies instead of being solid like any other house. His bedroom is at the highest floor, where it felt natural to sleep. There are no ladders to get back and forth, only small platforms he jumps between to go up and he uses his small wings to glide down.

He does not know why he builds his house this way.

He does not know why he creates bedrooms for guests who will not come, people who do not exist as far as he knows. He hasn’t seen another person in many years, and those had been his parents and hatchmates. He never did find out where they went.

He had woken up one day and they were gone. No sign of them having ever been there. He had stayed in the nest for a few more days, until his hunger drove him out in search of food.

He has not seen anyone other than himself and the animals and monsters nearby since.

His life is quite lonely, without his hatchmates or parents. But that was alright, he told himself. He wasn’t alone all the time.

There is a cat that occasionally takes shelter in his home. He calls her Clementine, after the citrus he grows in his garden. She shows up during storms, and when the weather turns cold she comes and stays in his house at night, but leaves before dawn.

There are the cows he keeps for milk, Henry and Harold. They are always there, and give him some company when he goes to feed them and milk them. But they are simply cows. They do not twitter and cluck and chirp like he does, like his hatchmates and parents did. They moo in response to his questions, a language that he does not know. He doubts they know what he says to them anyway.

He doesn’t mind the lack of a flock during the day. During the day, he is kept busy by his work on the farm and tending to Harold and Henry. During the day, he cooks and eats when he is hungry, and busies himself with digging for materials he will never use when he isn’t.

At night, when he waits for sleep, he longs for someone else’s company. He misses his hatchmates, his parents. He misses being able to call and sing and whistle and have other, coherent chirps in return. He misses conversation, not the broken bits of language formed by the birds in the trees.

But by the time he wakes, his grief is a distant memory, pushed away with the knowledge that he had work to do if he wanted to eat.

He hears weird noises coming from the forest around his house occasionally. None of the noises are any animal he’s heard of, not wolves, nor foxes, nor sheep, nor birds.

He stays in the house when they get particularly loud or close.

* * *

The first time he sees a strange creature, it was just after dawn.

He had been on his storage floor, the third highest, rummaging through his chests for a snack of seeds before he started plowing the fields, when his door swung open with a loud bang.

He jumped, wings flaring in alarm as his head swiveled towards the source of the sound. Considering he was on the third, and middle floor of the five floors his house contained, nothing could see him from the entrance, and he could not see what came in.

He inched forward, cautiously, and peeked over the floor and downwards, keeping his body as low to the ground as possible. His sword was on the bottom floor, he would have to jump down and glide to get to it if zombies somehow managed to get inside.

What he found, however, was that there were no zombies in his house.

There was a creature, tall and partially transparent. Burns littered its face, shoulders, and hands, and it made distressed, pained noises. Similar noises to the strange sounds he’d been hearing in the forest lately.

He had never seen anything like this creature before. It looked like him, but not like him at the same time. It lacked his taloned feet, his small feathered wings, and the feathers that stuck up out of his hair and behind his ears. It wore a long, torn cape, patterned in different twisting shapes.

But the similarities were there. Its hair was on top of its head, it walked on two legs (despite being different shapes than his). It had hands, opposable thumbs like he did, and it had a soft, hairless face like he did. Its eyes were large (like his), skin smooth (like his), and it wore clothes like he did.

He still hid from it, because it spoke in harsh tones and high-pitched calls, not the soft trills and twitters and clucks that he was used to.

It had stayed in the house all day, until the sun had set. Each minute had been more terrifying than the last, hoping that the creature would not figure out how to come to the higher floors and kill him. Hoping that the creature could not smell him from up here, and hoping that it would just leave.

The minute that the last traces of the sun was gone from the sky, the creature had left, just as quickly as it had come. And for the first time in hours, he could breathe without worrying about being heard.

He did not move from his place, crouched on the storage floor of his house, all night. He couldn’t sleep, despite being exhausted from being in fear all day. He couldn’t eat, despite the aching hunger in his stomach.

He didn’t dare move from his spot on the floor until well after dawn the next morning.

* * *

There was a storm outside.

Rain fell down in sheets, hitting his roof with loud clatters of the drops. It had started only a few minutes prior, and yet there were already countless puddles outside his house.

Thunder ripped through the sky with fervor, sounding if it was tearing the heavens apart with its force. Lightning flashes and lit up the house through the windows with each strike.

The clouds were swollen and dark. It had moved in quickly and surprisingly with the fierce winds it brought, giving him no time to prepare for it beforehand. He could only hope that Clementine was nearby and didn’t get too wet, and that Harold and Henry were protected enough in their stables.

The crops would most likely be ruined by this storm, and he would have to replant. But for now, he merely kept his lanterns lit and the fireplace going.

He’d discovered a leak in the roof, up on the top floor by his nest where he slept. It was frustrating, and annoying, and he had to go get a bucket from the third floor and then carry it up to the fifth to place it underneath the dripping water.

Then his door slammed open, reminiscent of before.

His eyes widened and he immediately threw himself on the ground, heart racing as fear flooded through him. That creature was back, wasn’t it? It had known he was there before, and it was coming back to kill him now!

But after several fear-filled, spine-chilling seconds, no creature came to kill him or eat him. In fact, he could hear choking breaths and pained vrwoops coming from the bottom floor.

Forcing his anxiety away, he scooted forward until he could see the bottom floor from the top, eyes narrowed.

There was another creature there, another one that he had never seen before. It was different than the last, and still bore little similarities to himself as well.

It seemed to be bleeding purple, instead of red. It had short black fur, but walked on two legs and seemed to have the same shaped legs as the last creature did. It was much taller than the other creature was as it collapsed against the wall, wheezing in pain. It wore clothes as well, and had two long pointed ears that seemed to move on their own. White fur was scattered amongst the black, and fangs poking out from its upper lip.

It was bleeding a lot, probably more than it should. There was a sizable puddle of purple blood staining his stone floor, and it grew larger from what seemed to be countless little burn marks all across the creature’s body.

It lay there against his wall for several minutes, unmoving and still bleeding purple blood from it’s wounds.

Was it... dead?

His anxiety was overridden by curiosity, and slight concern. He forced himself to stand up and glide down to the bottom floor, the creature not moving as he landed merely ten feet from it.

Hmm.

He approached the creature, its eyes were shut and its chest moving up and down sporadically, letting out wheezing breaths.

It was... asleep.

Blood still steadily leaked from its body’s odd wounds, and it was a concerning amount of said blood. He did not know how much blood this creature should have, but it seemed to be a lot.

He couldn’t just let it die, right? But what if it was dangerous? If it died, he really did not want to have to clean up it’s body.

Fuck.

He hopped his way up the floors, jumping onto his odd, parkouresque platforms to get to the storage floor. He knew where what he was looking for was, despite only having to use them once. He made it a habit to know where everything was.

He opened up the particular chest and pulled out a golden apple, a lightning flash reflecting light off of its skin for a moment. He only had a few of these, and he was wasting it on a potentially dangerous creature. Man, he was an idiot.

He glided back down to the ground floor and crouched in front of the still sleeping creature. It once again did not react to his presence at all, even when he chirped at it, and when he twittered at it. It didn’t even stir.

A short, irritated sigh left him, and he nudged the creature’s leg with his foot, keeping the claws on each of his toes curled away. Still nothing.

He wrapped his bird-like toes around the creature’s leg and raised it up, before dropping it with a thump. _Still_ nothing.

He glanced at its ears. Those looked sensitive.

Hm.

He leaned forward, near the creature’s ear, and let out the highest shriek he had in him.

The creature jolted, let out a similar scream that was more guttural and lower than his had been. It’s purple eyes snapped open, and it fumbled, glancing up at him with wide eyes.

He cocked his head at it, trying to calm his own racing heart. It was taking everything in him to not bolt immediately.

He shifted his wings uncomfortably and shoved the golden apple against the creature’s mouth forcefully, trilling nervously.

The creature seemed confused, blood-soaked hands coming up to touch the apple as its eyes narrowed trying to look at it. It made a questioning chirr that was muffled from the magical fruit halfway in its mouth.

He held on firmly, not letting go of the apple. He clucked an order at the creature, telling it to eat.

It didn’t respond, glancing upwards to meet his eyes again.

He repeated the series of clucks, this time more insistent. Bird language was not a language, just a series of tones and intentions, but it was the only one he knew. He pointed at his own mouth and mimed biting down and chewing, growing increasingly frustrated. This creature was staring at him like it was a _fledgling_ , and considering it probably couldn’t understand him, it might as well be one.

It stared at him for a moment longer, before its jaw started to move. The apple crunched as the creature bit down, tearing off a chunk of the fruit and chewing on it cautiously.

He made a few satisfied clicks, and made an effort to visibly swallow for the creature to mimic him.

The creature weakly swallowed the chunk of fruit, and he chirped in approval, forcing it to hold the rest of the apple. He repeated the series of clucks from earlier in a stern manner, before darting accords the room.

His fear had kicked in again. This creature was injured, but it wouldn’t be for long since he’d given it a golden apple. He was not about to die to some weird, fluffy, two-legged _thing_. Not after everything he’d done to keep himself alive until his parents and hatchmates come back.

So he scampered away, jumping from platform to platform until he was once again on the top floor.

The creature kept making harsh calls at him, similar to that of the first creature. Loud, two tone calls that quite honestly sounded like a fledgling calling for its mother. he did not trust it one bit, and he stayed up on the top floor instead of coming down to meet it.

He did not like that the creature acted like a fledgling, and he didn’t trust its actions.

He watched it for a while from up in his nest as the storm raged outside. When it seemed to be healed, it wandered around the house, glancing up at him occasionally. It called up to him, but he did not answer.

It at one point vanished, and then reappeared in a whirl of purple sparks on one of the platforms about halfway up the wall, high enough to be able to see him. He had shrieked, high and loud, and backed himself into the corner, feathers puffing up to make himself look bigger.

The creature stared at him from it’s place on the platform, unmoving, making questioning trills and mrrps that were nothing but gibberish to his ears. They were almost like garbled versions of his own language, as if the creature was trying to imitate it and failing miserably.

He gave it a warning screech, wings spread in warning. His fingers itched for his sword downstairs as a thunderous boom shook the house.

The creature raised its hands, palms facing him. Each of its fingers were tipped with a claw, similar to his feet, but with five fingers instead of the four long toes that he had.

It vanished again, and he scrambled to the edge of the floor to see where it went. The purple sparks were on the bottom floor once more, and so was the creature.

And there it remained until the rain stopped falling. He did not take his eyes off of it once, and it occasionally chattered gibberish at him, but he never responded.

Once the storm had stopped, it had gone to the door, glanced up at him, and chattered once more. Then it left without another word.

He was glad to see it leave. He hoped it wouldn’t come back.

* * *

He was having a normal day.

There had not been a visit from any strange creatures since the storm two days ago. He was still fixing his fields after that whole mess, considering they had flooded from the torrential rain that had been dumped on him.

It was an unusually hot day for it growing closer to the cold season, and he was absolutely sweltering by the time the sun was in the middle of the sky.

He took a quick break from fixing the fields, heading inside for water and for the coolness that the indoors would bring.

He nearly shrieked and jumped out of his skin when he saw something curled up on the floor of his house.

It was _another_ creature, another one he had never seen before, and another one that looked nothing like the other two that had visited him.

It was clearly asleep, eyes shut and chest rising and falling rhythmically. Soft purple-gray plating lined its forearms and hands, also on its cheekbones as well. It had hair on top of its head like the first creature did, and it wore clothes like the other two had. It was much smaller than either of the other two creatures, but it did seem to walk on its hind legs like them.

Why did all these strange things that looked like him but not like him keep coming to _his_ house?

Regardless, it looked like it was in a pretty deep sleep. So he left it be, kind of over these whole strange encounters.

As much as he tried to ignore the creature asleep in his house, his brain kept murmuring about how uncomfortable the wooden floor must be. No matter how much he tried to ignore it.

He actually hesitated going back outside, glancing at the still-sleeping creature as his brain kept going on about the uncomfortableness of sleeping on the floor without a nest.

With a sigh, he hopped up the floors of his house until he reached the top where his nest was. He carefully removed a pillow (stuffed with his own molted feathers) from the nest and glided back down to the bottom floor where the creature was sleeping.

He approached it cautiously, pillow in front of him in case it woke and attacked him. But when it stayed asleep, even when he was practically on top of it, he let himself relax slightly.

He quickly shoved the pillow against the creature and then bolted back outside, scared that the creature would wake up and attack him.

But after several minutes, nothing followed him out the door.

Still, he stayed outside, returning to his fields to continue his work trying to save his remaining crops.

By the time he went back inside, as the sun sunk low into the sky, the creature was gone, and the pillow left on the floor with it. There was a piece of strange, white, extremely thin material laid on top of the pillow, with dark scribbles on it. Upon examination, it crumpled and tore very easily, but was not dangerous.

He was intrigued by the object, to say the least, holding it gingerly as to not tear it further. He found he quite liked how odd it was, so he took both the pillow and the material up to his nest, leaving the strange item in the corner where it would not be so easily damaged by him on accident in his sleep.

* * *

“Fuck, shit,” Phil hissed, swiping his sword down in an arc and cutting through one of his attackers. The zombie growled at him, but it sounded more like a gurgle, as it collapsed to the ground and started to disintegrate.

One zombie down, only what seemed to be a dozen more mobs left to go.

A skeleton had gotten lucky earlier, shooting his wing and rendering him flightless for the time being until he could heal. Unfortunately, he’d forgotten to bring anything that _could_ heal him on this particular adventure, so he was stuck on the ground.

It was dark, it was cold, and Phil was miserable.

He had monsters chasing him, he had no clue where he was, and he’d been grounded by a _stupid_ skeleton.

This was not the situation he had wanted to be in right now.

There was a break in the trees up ahead. If Phil ran fast enough, he could make it, but he had no idea what lay on the other side.

It was starting to become his only option, though.

He swiped his sword again, and another zombie was felled. But there was still more to replace it.

“Fuck it,” Phil decided aloud, turning tail and bolting.

That was one good thing about monsters. They were slow little shits, so they couldn’t catch up to him if they tried. If he wasn’t careful, and if a skeleton was particularly lucky, than they could probably land an arrow on him, but it was unlikely. He already had one arrow in his wing, he wasn’t particularly keen on having another.

He wasn’t particularly fast at the moment, due to being under a good deal of tall trees. The bird brain hated being in low places, this including the tree canopy above him, so he was a bit slower and weaker than he usually was because of it.

But it was enough, it seemed, as he managed to push his way through the trees and found himself at a—

At a house?

This house was tall, several stories high, and built out of a combination of wood and stone. There were crop fields off to one side, a water well just a ways off, and what looked like a small barn on the other side.

Phil had never been to this place before. It wasn’t Wilbur’s house, or Tubbo’s house, or Ranboo’s house. Niki couldn’t build on land, and it certainly wasn’t his own.

But he had heard of this house.

Wilbur had brought it up first, mentioning he’d found an odd house out in the middle of the woods when the sun had risen faster than he’d expected it to. He’d sheltered there until the sun set, and he’d assumed it was abandoned considering no one had been around that whole day.

Tubbo mentioned it next, saying he’d been rather tired one day and found some house out in the woods. He had taken a nap out on the floor of the house, and had woken up with a pillow being shoved in his face and some kid running out the door, leaving feathers in his wake.

Ranboo had interjected just a second afterwards, after hearing Tubbo talk about the weird house. He said he had got caught outside during the storm the other day, and had gotten pretty wet and hurt. He’d taken shelter in a house he’d found out in the woods, and was pretty sure he had passed out because he woke up to some kid screaming in his ear. Said kid force-fed him a golden apple, not speaking Common but in a high pitched series of clicks, and then ran off.

The only description he’d gotten of the kid from both Ranboo and Tubbo was “tall, very skinny, winged”.

This had to be that house.

“Sorry kid,” Phil ran towards the front door. “Not a great first impression, leading a bunch of monsters to your front door, but it’ll have to do.”

The door was, surprisingly, unlocked when Phil twisted the knob. He ducked into the house, slamming the door shut behind him.

After several panic-filled minutes of waiting to see if the door would start shaking because of zombies banging on it, yet getting nothing, he finally allowed himself to relax.

His injured wing drooped to the ground, and his sword fell from his hand, hitting the wooden floor with a loud clatter. Phil turned to inspect the wound, hissing slightly as he moved his wing to look.

That’s when he heard something.

His head snapped around, eyes narrowed.

There was a boy standing nearby, in a defensive position. This kid couldn’t have been older then thirteen or fourteen, and he was staring at Phil from atop a series of platforms that were similar to stairs, except they were far enough apart that you’d probably have to jump to get between each one.

This kid looked like _Phil_.

Well, he seemed to be the same species as Phil was, except slightly different. They both had the same bird-like legs and taloned, scaly feet. He had the same feathers sticking up out of his hair, fluffed outwards instead of laid smooth like Phil’s usually were. He had feathered wings like Phil did, except the kid’s wings were much smaller than his had been at that age. He also lacked the tail feathers that Phil had, and while their legs were the same, the kid’s seemed significantly stronger than his own.

The kid was still just a fledgling, his wings still holding their baby feathers. Speaking of feathers, they were a _disaster_. Like he hadn’t preened them in years.

Like he hadn’t had someone to preen them for him in years.

Phil couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the poor boy. His wings were surely uncomfortable and sore from his feathers being in that state.

The boy was staring him down, some of his feathers puffed out in a nervous way. But curiosity must have won out over fear, because the kid jumped from the platform he was on to the one below it. His talons dug into the edge to keep him balanced, and the boy crouched, peering down at him with bright eyes.

The fledgling let out a series of quiet clicks, pitching upwards at the end as if it was a question. The noise was familiar to Phil in a way he couldn’t quite place, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

He was clearly inspecting Phil, but the older man was confused on why he hadn’t said anything yet.

“Hey mate,” Phil said softly, causing the boy to jerk backwards as if he’d been burned. The kid took several steps backward until his back was against the wall, wings extending and teeth baring at him defensively. “Hey hey hey, it’s okay, it’s okay. You’re alright mate. You’re okay. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The boy squawked, giving him a disbelieving look. The feathers around his ears and from his hair sticking up straighter defensively.

Why was...?

Oh.

Shit.

“Are you... still chirping?” Phil tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “No one taught you Common? Can you even understand me?”

The boy didn’t respond at all, just still staring at him.

Here’s the thing. Chirping was something that really only the youngest fledgling elytrians did, as well as parents to said fledglings. They’re slowly taught Common over the years (starting at about age ten), but chirping was their main form of communication with their parents and hatchmates until they aged out of the nest at sixteen. After that, they used Common like everyone else.

For this kid to still be chirping, and not understanding Common at all, his parents must have either died or left before they could start to teach him. It also meant that he hadn’t been around anyone for _years_ , because if he had, then someone would have taught him Common.

Phil didn’t remember chirping all that much, he doesn’t know what they mean as well as he did when he was younger. But... trial and error, right?

He cleared his throat and took a deep breath, before his own croaky chirp came out.

The boy tilted his head, feathers on his head twitching. He stood up a little straighter, inched forward a little on his platform. Multiple quiet clucks sounded from him as he peered down at Phil with renewed interest.

Phil smiled. “See? We’re the same. You just don’t know Common yet. I’m not very good at chirping, but I’ll try my best.”

A quiet trill came from the boy, his head tilting the other way this time. He looked cautious, but curious.

Then he was falling.

Phil startled backwards as a whirl of red and gold feathers filled his vision. The boy had jumped off his platform, and was fluttering down slowly with rapid beats of his wings.

Now they were eye level, with Phil no longer having to crane his neck upwards to stare at him.

The boy cocked his head to the side, crouching slightly, but approaching Phil all the same. He was still tense, body angled and poised to run, but he kept coming closer, a single hand outstretched towards the older man.

Phil held himself completely still as fingers ghosted lightly across his jaw, thehand those fingers belonged to moving upwards and to the side of his head. The boy found the feathers that curled behind Phil’s ear, and grasped them gently.

Blue eyes scanned Phil, flicking from his face to his wings to his legs. The hand behind his ear withdrew, instead finding his own hand and manipulating the older man’s fingers.

The boy pressed their palms together, the older man’s hands being quite a size larger than the boy’s.

Phil racked his brain for the meaning behind the chirps, trying to think of a vocalization that would be at least similar to what he wanted to tell the boy in this situation. He eventually settled on a soft warble that was typically used in communicating that a certain type of food was the same as another, because it was the only thing he could think of.

The boy gave him a weird look, halfway between amusement and confusion. But he repeated the warble, albeit more hesitantly.

“That’s right,” Phil reassured the boy, who narrowed his eyes at him but didn’t run off at the use of Common. “We’re the same.”

The boy let out a disgruntled grumble, withdrawing his hand from Phil’s. He scanned the older man once again, and his eyes suddenly snapped open wide at something he found.

He turned and bolted.

“Wait!” Phil called, reaching for the boy, but he was too slow.

The boy was hopping up his platforms now, wings slightly extended to keep himself balanced.

“Wait!” Phil repeated the word desperately, wishing he didn’t have a fucking arrow in his wing, because if he didn’t, he’d be able to fly up to meet the boy. He didn’t understand what he’d done, or what the boy had seen that had spooked him.

The boy disappeared onto a balcony, the second of the four that were above him, and Phil could hear a chest open. There was a rustling noise coming from up there, and then the boy reappeared, jumping off the balcony and fluttering down in the same way he’d done before.

He landed mere feet from Phil, and then scampered over, shoving something into his hands and clucking agitatedly at him.

Glancing down, Phil realized it was a golden apple.

He looked between the boy and the fruit, blinking in confusion.

“Mate?” he laughed nervously. “Do you just have a stash of these up there? Why the hell would you give one to me?”

The boy clucked at him again, shoving at his hands forcefully.

“Alright, alright,” Phil surrendered, shuffling backwards a few steps. “Just hold on a second.”

He felt the boy’s eyes on him, staring at him, as he pulled his wing around, grunting at the pain that particular action brought. Phil forced himself to grab onto the shaft of the arrow, as close to the arrowhead as he could get. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and began to pull.

His teeth ground together as he slowly wiggled the arrowhead out, careful to not snap the fragile wooden shaft of the arrow itself, lest he make this job harder.

With a sickening wet sound and a flare of burning pain, the arrow popped free, clattering to the ground.

Blood spurted out of the wound with more fervor now that the projectile that had impaled him was now out. Phil heard a concerned trill come from the boy, but he didn’t focus on it. Instead, he sank his teeth into the golden skin of the apple that had been given to him.

He finished it quickly, and watched as the wound slowed its bleeding of its own accord, the flesh knitting itself back together. Soon, all that was left of the injury was a gap in his feathers, drying blood, and a scar over delicate, newly healed skin.

The boy nodded approvingly at the sight of the wound being gone, reaching forwards and running a hand over the feathers on Phil’s wing, making the older man still in an effort not to spook him. The boy didn’t seem to care, though, brushing his hand down his wing once more before pulling back.

They were at a standstill, two elytrians with a language barrier between them. Phil was sure his chirping sucked, and this fledgling probably hadn’t heard a word of Common until Wilbur showed up in his house mere days ago.

The boy tentatively reached forward again and gently touched the feathers behind Phil’s ears, uncertainty in his bright blue eyes. An expression that was surely mirrored on Phil’s own face.

The fledgling withdrew, glancing out the window and frowning. He sighed, glancing upward, before a soft chirp came from his mouth, jumping onto a platform nearby.

“What?” Phil asked, eyebrows furrowing. He didn’t recognize the meaning behind that particular chirp.

The boy repeated the noise, hopping up onto the next platform and staring at Phil meaningfully.

“I don’t know what that means,” Phil admitted, staring up at him.

The kid rolled his eyes, before starting to jump from one platform to the next with a practiced ease, not bothering to slow down even.

“Hey! Wait!”

He stopped, about halfway to the ceiling by now. “Wayyyy-tih,” the boy warbled, imitating him with a shaky, slurred tone. “Wayyyy-tih.”

Phil blinked, stunned. “Uh, yeah. Wait up!”

“Wayy uh.”

“Wait up.”

“Way uh.”

“I mean, close enough?” Phil offered, unsure of what to do with the knowledge that this fledgling was imitating him like he was his father, teaching him Common for the first time.

The boy stared at him for another moment, before continuing his journey upwards. This time, crowing: “way uh, way uh,” with an curious lilt to his accented pronunciation.

Phil just stood there, unsure of what the hell was happening right now. All he could do was watch as the boy hopped from platform to platform, wings extended to keep his balance.

The boy turned to stared down at him once he was almost all the way to the ceiling, forcing Phil to crane his neck to be able to see him. There was a platform up there, though he couldn’t see it very well. It was a sizable height above his head, and if he hadn’t seen that the house was dug into to cliff face, he would wonder how the hell this kid managed to build it at all.

He heard a questioning trill come from the boy, as if he was confused.

“I don’t know what you’re wanting me to do, mate,” Phil called up to him, spreading his wings in apology. “Do you want me to follow you?”

The boy cocked his head to the side and hopped his way onto the platform, leaning over the edge and still peering at him. The questioning trill was repeated.

Phil hesitated, not wanting to spook the boy, but figuring this was probably what was being asked of him. He angled his wings correctly and propelled himself upwards. There was a startled, but not scared, squawk coming from above him.

The house was just barely big enough for him to spread his wings fully, and he kept whacking his right wing on the platforms the boy had used to climb up here, but he was flying. The now-healed injury ached slightly as he went up, but it didn’t hinder him too much.

He landed on the top platform without difficulty, though he did have to duck because of how close he was to the ceiling. Phil’s claws dug into the wood of the platform to keep his balance as his wings flapped once, twice, before folding closed once more.

The boy stared at him with wide, shining eyes. A delighted chirp came from the boy, making him sound younger than he looked, before he shook himself and nodded at Phil approvingly.

“So you did want me to follow you,” Phil smiled, before his gaze shifted from the boy to scan the balcony/platform they were on. It seemed to be just covered in blankets, pillows, and clothes, red and gold feathers scattered everywhere. It looked like a poor imitation of a hatchling nest, the ones that parent elytrians build for their fledglings.

It probably was a hatchling nest, just not built by the boy’s parents.

A soft series of chirps caught his attention, dragging him away from his thoughts. The boy was crouched not far away, eyes still glittering brightly with what Phil hesitantly identified as awe and nervousness.

The boy brightened up even further once he saw Phil was looking at him, but still seemed hesitant as he inched forward warily. He was trilling again, cocking his head to the side and scooting closer.

“What’re you up to mate?” Phil asked, quietly as to not spook him.

The boy hummed thoughtfully, scrunching up his nose in thought. “May,” the boy echoed confidently, as if he’d been speaking Common his whole life. He kept creeping forward, until he was maybe a meter away from Phil, eyes narrowing.

Then, thin fingers wrapped around Phil’s wrist, and he was being pulled along, towards the nest.

“Hey, wait, I gotta get back—” he tried to protest, but was cut off as he was tugged down into the nest by the boy, who was clucking at him sternly. “Are you lecturing me?”

More clucks, and now the boy was giving him a stern look as well.

“I don’t have any idea what you’re trying to say right now. You can’t lecture me if you don’t speak Common,” Phil laughed, almost disbelievingly.

The boy kept clucking at him, before flicking him on the nose, a gesture often done to misbehaving fledglings.

“Hey!” Phil jerked back, indignant. “I’m not a fledgling! You’re the fledgling!”

The boy laughed, quietly, pulling back and clucking at him again, with the same tones and intervals as before. This time, Phil recognized the meaning behind it: “stay”.

“Stay?” Phil echoed, raising an eyebrow.

“Stay?” The boy mimicked, cocking his head to the side, before repeating the clucks again.

The boy was backing away, Phil realized. Scooting backwards to the edge of the platform. He didn’t seem scared or nervous, not anymore.

“Hey, wait—” Phil started, but interrupted himself as the boy jumped off the platform and started fluttering downwards, same as he did before. His shoulders slumped with a sigh, the feathers on the nest being disturbed by the faint breeze coming from the boy’s wings.

He sat back against the wall, casually scanning the nest that he was in. Phil wasn’t quite sure why he was staying like the boy asked him too, not when he had to get back to the others, who would surely be wondering where he was at this point.

Speak of the devil.

There was a soft murmur in the back of his mind, someone having sent him a message directly.

_< WilburSoot> phil where are you_

_< WilburSoot> you said you would be back by now_

Phil shifted in place, gathering his wings to be in a more comfortable position as he started forming his response, sending it as soon as he was done.

_< Ph1LzA> You remember that house you found?_

_< Ph1LzA> Found out who owns it_

_< WilburSoot> do we need to perform a rescue mission philza minecraft_

_< Ph1LzA> No_

_< Ph1LzA> I’ll be around by morning_

_< Ph1LzA> Maybe I’ll bring a new friend too_

Phil didn’t get a response after that, at least, not a direct one. He didn’t feel like checking the wide message chat to see if anyone else was trying to catch his attention. If he was needed, they’d send something direct.

Was the boy going to come back?

Phil could still hear him, shuffling about on the lower floors, but he wasn’t sure what the boy was planning exactly. The language barrier wasn’t exactly helping matters, considering he was only able to glean bits and pieces of information from the boy’s chirps from what little he could recall.

His bird brain didn’t particularly like it up here, since the ceiling was so low, but the feeling was almost completely drowned out by being in a nest. The bird brain liked the nest, though secretly grumbled at wanting to make it _his_ way for the fledgling to sleep in. The thought was, quite frankly, ridiculous.

Phil leaned up against the wall with a sigh, arranging his wings carefully so they wouldn’t get squished. With nothing else really to do, he scanned the nest, bored. The red and gold feathers were scattered everywhere, as if the boy was molting pretty frequently. That wasn’t too uncommon, if he was in his early teens like Phil assumed he was. He would be growing out of his baby feathers soon, and frequent molting was a normal thing during that time.

There were a few other things scattered about, a few scraps of fabric that looked like they’d been torn from clothes, though Phil had no idea why the kid would be ripping up his clothes. A bucket of water was in one of the corners, underneath a damp spot on the ceiling. Kid must’ve had a roof leak in the storm a few days back.

But what really caught his eye was a piece of paper shoved into the corner, looking as if had been crumpled and smoothed out several times, and was torn in a few places.

Curiosity got the best of him, and he leaned over to grab it.

Phil smoothed out the paper and narrowed his eyes at it curiously. There was writing on it, in _Tubbo’s_ handwriting.

_Hey there! I hope you don’t mind that I took a nap here. Thanks for the pillow though! maybe we can talk next time :)_

Tubbo must have left it when he was here the other day, which was nice of him. What didn’t make sense, though, was why the boy who lived here to keep the note, especially since he didn’t speak Common, which meant he sure as hell wouldn’t be able to read Common.

It was kind of sweet, honestly, the way the boy had kept the note despite not being able to read what it said.

Phil was interrupted from his thoughts by the faint sound of hopping from platform to platform. When he swiveled his gaze over to where the platforms were on the wall, he saw blonde hair pop up, followed by the rest of the boy as he jumped onto the balcony with the him.

The fledgling shook out his little wings as he picked his way through the nest, plopping himself down next to Phil. A loaf of bread was shoved into the older man’s hands, not warm, but still soft and fresh.

“Oh, uh,” Phil blinked down at the bread. “Thanks,” he accompanied the word with a chirp that invoked gratitude.

The boy gave him a sleepy trill in response, feathers twitching in a way that broadcasted how tired he was. His eyelids were drooping, as were his wings. His head kept pitching downwards and then snapping back up, trying to keep himself awake.

Something about the whole situation was very soft. Phil was trying his best to keep the bird brain in check. It was apparently trying to adopt the fledgling as his, which was ridiculous, considering he’d literally just met this kid. The bird brain wanted him to fix the disastrous state of the boy’s feathers, and it demanded he fix the nest so it was specifically for him and the kid.

He was, frankly, struggling to keep it in check, fending off the bird brain to the best of his ability. Of course he wanted to help the boy, but his instincts wanting to adopt this fledgling as his less than an hour after meeting him was a bit overkill.

Phil nearly jumped a foot in the air as something gently thumped on his shoulder. He turned to find the boy half-asleep, head resting on the older man’s shoulder as his eyes slipped closed.

He sighed, gently grabbing hold of the boy and peeling them both off from the wall. When Phil laid down properly in the nest, he wasn’t surprised to find the boy immediately doing the same and snuggling into his chest.

Another instinct thing, most likely. Fledglings, regardless of age, often slept in piles with their hatchmates and parents. With this kid being as young as he was, it wasn’t too much of a surprise to Phil that he was giving into his instincts so easily.

For as long as this kid must have been alone, to not be able to speak, read, or understand Common at all, it was safe to say that Phil didn’t particularly blame him for snuggling into him at the first opportunity. He was still a fledgling, one who didn’t have a flock and most likely hadn’t had one in a very long time. The contact of another person must feel so foreign to this poor kid.

Dammit, the bird brain was adopting this kid. He could feel it.

Phil sighed, reaching up and gently threading his fingers through the boy’s hair. The fledgling crooned appreciatively in his half-asleep state, leaning into the touch without hesitation at all.

“You’ll be alright mate,” Phil murmured, gently scratching his nails over the boy’s scalp. His hair was so greasy that he could practically feel the oil that was starting to coat his hands. This kid desperately needed a bath. “You’ll be okay, I’ve got you now.”

The boy sleepily chirped as he dozed off into sleep, curling further against Phil’s chest with a content sigh. The older man gently extended a wing over the boy protectively, making him cuddle in further with a delighted little trill.

“I’ve got you know,” Phil told the boy, even though he knew that he wasn’t being understood. Internally, he started preparing a message to Wilbur.

_< Ph1LzA> I’m bringing him home_

* * *

He did not know who this strange elytrian was who had wandered into his home. It had been injured, running away from monsters outside. He did not trust it, not right away, even with a small voice cheering in the back of his head at this person.

The little voice was the reason he had gotten the golden apple to help heal the person, insisting he needed to make sure the elytrian was safe and healthy. The little voice was the reason he urged this person up into his nest, the place only flock was allowed to go. The little voice was the reason he went to go fetch bread for the elytrian, not wanting it to be hungry.

As he grew tired, due to it being late at night, he gave more and more into the voice’s whims, leaning up against the elytrian despite his lack of familiarity with it. His chest felt all warm and his mind felt all gooey, like the honey that his parents had used to bring him and his hatchmates.

When the elytrian repositioned them to be more comfortable in the nest, he sank completely into the warmth in his chest. He had curled against the elytrian, finding comfort in the foreign feathers of its wings.

The little voice cooed and chirped delightedly, telling him his father had returned, just like he had been waiting for so many years.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to be clear, Phil’s not Tommy’s biological dad in this. Tommy just _thinks_ he is because of his bird brain. They’re not related at all. 
> 
> In case you’re a bit confused: In this, Avians are considered to be runt Elytrians, with wings that are much smaller than regular Elytrians, so they can’t fly. Tommy was abandoned by his parents and hatchmates because of being a runt when he was about eight or nine, and grew up on his own until Wilbur, Ranboo, Tubbo and Phil find him at thirteenish.
> 
> Anyways, chapter 2 will take place a couple months later and show Tommy learning to talk with his new family :D


End file.
